


The Little Death

by ImpishTubist



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Illness, frank discussions of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 05:09:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1416262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The sex was mind-blowing. Quite literally, unfortunately."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Death

**Author's Note:**

> “The little death” is sometimes used as an euphemism for orgasm.
> 
> See the collection for details as to where this idea came from. And pay attention to the tags, please. Past relationship _means_ past relationship.

Sherlock woke up to an empty bed, and for a moment it disoriented him.

This wasn’t an unusual occurrence by any means, as his sexual encounters were few and far between, and even when they did occur, he didn’t make a habit of staying the night in someone else’s bed. 

This night, though - this one had been different. Sherlock had been spending most of his nights - and many of his days - of late with one Victor Trevor, who was dark-haired and hazel-eyed and handsome in a rugged sort of way. He was brawny and clever, two traits that were guaranteed to send Sherlock’s blood rushing south. Victor had a wicked tongue both in bed and out of it, and he could reduce Sherlock to an incoherent, whimpering mess in a matter of minutes. He was intoxicating and brilliant, and it was dizzying just being in his presence. Sherlock had never experienced anything like this before; had never even come _close_ , not even with John.

He and Victor had attended a performance of the London Symphony Orchestra earlier that night, which had led to the successful arrest of the Fetter Lane Robber. They had celebrated back at Victor’s flat with a late dinner and a bottle of wine - after patching up their mild injuries, of course. Sherlock had suffered a split lip and Victor was going to have some colourful bruising around his right eye in the morning, but that had done little to dampen their spirits. This case had been plaguing Sherlock for close to six weeks now, and its successful conclusion had happened to coincide with the eight-month anniversary of his first date with Victor. Not that he had been keeping track, of course, but apparently this was something that Victor had mentally noted (and apparently he was counting their rather unfortunate first meeting in sixteen years, which had sent them both into the Thames after a murder suspect, as a first date. Not that Sherlock necessarily disagreed, but it was so rare to find someone who shared his thought processes). 

Victor had taken him to bed after dinner, which wasn’t odd, but during the contentment in the aftermath of their coupling, he had requested that Sherlock stay over, which was. They had fallen asleep on opposite sides of the bed and rolled together; at one point, Sherlock had briefly blinked awake to notice that Victor’s head was tucked just under his own chin. And now, three hours later, the bed was empty.

Sherlock reached out a hand and felt the impression in the mattress that had been left behind by Victor’s body. It was still warm. He slid from the bed and grabbed his dressing gown, which he cinched around his waist. He then padded into the adjoining bathroom, intending to use the facilities before going in search of Victor. He was probably in his office down the hall, knowing Victor. 

Sherlock switched on the light in the bathroom and stopped in his tracks. Victor was in there, sitting on the floor by the bathtub. He was dressed in a pair of tracksuit bottoms and a worn grey t-shirt, the front of which was soaked with sweat. Victor’s face was colourless and his lips were white, and he flinched as though the sudden light had physically assaulted him. 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Victor groaned. Sherlock quickly snapped off the lights again, and in the darkness he heard a sigh. 

“Better?” he ventured.

“A bit,” Victor croaked, his voice as rough as sandpaper. Sherlock felt his way over to where Victor lay slumped against the side of the bathtub and knelt next to him. 

“What is it?” he asked, his fingers finding first Victor’s shoulder and then the side of his face. He didn’t feel feverish, but his skin was clammy with cool sweat. 

“Nothing to worry about, lover,” Victor said, and Sherlock could hear the lopsided smile in his voice. It disappeared a moment later, and his next words were pained even though he tried to infuse them with false cheer. “You fucked my brains out, is all.”

“I - beg your pardon?”

“The sex was mind-blowing.” Victor let out a slow sigh, and Sherlock felt him shift so that his forehead was pressed to the cool porcelain of the tub. “Quite literally, unfortunately.”

When Sherlock didn’t answer, he finally said, “Migraine, Sherlock.”

Oh. _Oh._ Sherlock reflexively cupped the side of Victor’s face, and Victor leaned into the cool touch of his fingers. The violent reaction to the bathroom light made sense now. 

“What can I do?” he asked. 

“Nothing, I’m afraid,” Victor said. His words were sluggish. “ ‘Tis a burden I must bear alone. _Christ_ , I feel like death. Actually, I’m certain death would be preferable.”

He gave a sudden giggle that skittered erratically up the scale and added, “ _La petite mort._ ‘The little death’ is what landed me here tonight, and it’s going to be the actual death of me one of these days, I know it. Isn’t that funny?”

Victor then drew several sharp breaths through his nose and moaned, “Please detach my head from my body, I’m begging you.”

“I rather like it where it is, thanks.” Sherlock got to his feet and rummaged about blindly in the bathroom cabinet until he fastened his hand around a familiar bottle of pills. He shook two of them into the palm of his hand and filled a glass of water, which he then brought over to Victor and pressed into his hand. While Victor was forcing down the medicine, Sherlock then went into the kitchen and fetched a cold compress.

“Ah, my knight in shining armor has returned to aid his fellow in distress. How kind, brave Sir Sherlock,” Victor said. Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

“Hush, you,” he said. He sat down again and gathered Victor against him. He pressed the cold compress against Victor’s forehead and held it there. He wrapped his free arm around Victor’s waist and let it settle on his stomach. 

“It’s funny, you see,” Victor murmured, sagging against Sherlock, “ ‘cause Mycroft had you knighted after the Belgian incident. So you really _are_ Sir Sherlock. Get it?”

“I got it without the help, thanks,” Sherlock said dryly. He pressed his lips against Victor’s temple. “Do these things always make you… like this?”

“ ‘Fraid so,” Victor said dejectedly. “M’a bit not myself, I think.”

“Just a tad,” Sherlock said. 

“Didn’t want you to see this, of course,” Victor went on. “S’why I never let you stay over.”

_ Ah.  _ Another puzzle piece slid into place. “This happens often?”

“Mm. Sex migraines. How ridiculous, eh?” Victor lifted one shoulder in a weary shrug. And then he tensed. “Sher, think I’m gonna be sick.”

He wasn’t, not really, but the dry heaves took the rest of his remaining strength and Sherlock had to practically carry him back to bed. He retrieved another cold compress and this time tucked it under the back of Victor’s neck. 

“Could be worse, I s’pose,” Victor murmured. “I could be allergic to your semen. Oh, shit. Sorry. That was crass.”

But Sherlock laughed softly, and then he kissed Victor’s cheek.

“No, not at all,” he said. “It’s true. It would be a dreadful tragedy indeed if you were allergic to my semen. Imagine all you would have to give up.”

“I _do_ love sucking your cock,” Victor said morosely. “It’s a very nice cock. Don’t want to give that up.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You won’t have to. Go see a doctor. There’s medicine that can help with the migraines, you know.”

Victor snorted. “I’ll go see John. How would that go, d’you think? ‘John, I get a migraine every time I have sex with your ex. You know, the one who was so allergic to your semen that you had to stop fucking him? Anyway, what do you think I should do?’ Christ, he’d probably murder me there and then.”

“Hardly,” Sherlock said dryly. “And he’s not my ex. He couldn’t care less who I choose to take to bed now.”

“You slept with him.”

“Here and there. That doesn’t mean anything. I was high -”

“Of course.”

“ - _on adrenaline_ ,” Sherlock said firmly, “and he was there. It was convenient for the both of us.”

“Until the allergy part.”

Sherlock sighed. “Well, yes, there is that.”

“And now you’ve got someone who gets fucking _sex migraines_ , of all things. Can’t even masturbate without one of these things plaguing me.” Victor sighed. “You sure know how to pick your partners, don’t you?”

“Victor,” Sherlock said with a soft laugh, “do you know how one avoids being affected by a semen allergy? Condoms.”

Victor was quiet for a moment, processing this.

“Great,” he said finally. “So now you’re telling me that not only did you sleep with your flatmate on multiple occasions, but you weren’t safe about it.”

“You’ve known me since I was seventeen. Surely you know I’m anal enough to have thoroughly checked John’s health records before engaging in unprotected sex with him. Pun not intended,” Sherlock said dryly. “And you’re entirely missing the point. What I mean to say is, had I cared one whit about pursuing a relationship with my flatmate, we would have invested in condoms and done away with the problem once and for all.”

“You lazy bastard.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again.

“Listen to me,” he said gently, stroking a finger along Victor’s stubbled jaw. “John is a good friend, a decent shag, and a mediocre writer. He’s nothing compared to you. There are compromises I wouldn’t have expended any energy on with him, but which I will gladly indulge in for you. Now, you are going to either investigate medications for your ailment with your GP, or we’re going to both become celibate. Because I no longer have any desire to sleep with someone who isn’t you, and I am also unwilling to cause you further pain. The choice is yours.”

Victor was silent for a moment.

“Love you, too, you fool,” he said quietly. 

“I’m glad we agree on something.”

Victor fell asleep some minutes later, their joined hands resting gently on his stomach. Sherlock kissed his fabric-clad shoulder and followed not long after.   
 


End file.
